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THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 












































































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‘ Every day , the bluebird came to sing in the Little Girl's Garden 


THE BLUEBIRD’S 
GARDEN" 


BY 

PATTEN BEARD " 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 


Copyright, 1915 
By PATTEN BEARD 


THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON 


DEC 17 1915 v 




©CU418097C 


THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED TO 

MARIOARA 


AND TO THE GARDEN OF THE LITTLE YELLOW 
HOUSE UPON THE OLD HIGHWAY, AND 
TO THE BLUEBIRD OF THE 
GARDEN WHO SANG 
THE STORIES 


THERE 


THE AUTHOR'S NOTE 

Many of these little stories have appeared 

FROM TIME TO TIME IN THE MAGAZINES. THE 
AUTHOR WISHES TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE KIND- 
NESS of THE YOUTH'S COMPANION, 
JOHN MARTIN'S BOOK, LITTLE FOLKS, 
and THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE and 

THEIR COURTESY IN PERMITTING A REPRINT 
OF WORK THAT WAS ORIGINALLY THEIRS. 


















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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Bluebird’s Garden and the Bluebird 

Field ....... 3 

Why the Butterfly is not a Flower . . 7 

The Princess and Her Bird . . . .15 

The Elf and the Penny Tree . . 21 

The Three Brother Dwarfs .... 29 

Slowasapoke, the Snail .... 37 

The Fable of the Wish . . . . 43 

The Sand-Box and the Shell . . .49 

Where the Sea Shell Found Its Song . . 55 

The Silly Little Elf . . . . .61 

Little Mr. Inch, ...... 67 

The First April Fool that Ever Was . . 73 

The Fountain Goldfish .... 79 

The Two Birds and the Early Worm . . 83 

Little Lady-Bug Lady ..... 89 

The White Pebble ..... 95 

How There Came to be a Firefly . . .105 

The Flower that Lives Above the Clouds . 109 

The Mountain that Wanted to be a Man . 115 

The Sundial and the Dandelion . . .121 

The Legend of the Morning Dew . . .127 

How There Came to be a Katydid . . .131 

At the End of the Rainbow . . . .137 

Why the Potato Lives in the Ground . .143 

The Story of the Brier-Rose . . .149 

The Hole in the Hedge . . . .155 

The Golden Purse and the Seeing Eyes . .159 






ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Song of the Bluebird . . Frontispiece 

Looking for the Elves . . Facing Page 160* 



The Bluebird’s Garden 




The Bluebird's Garden 

T HE bluebird came to the garden every 
day. He swung upon the low branch 
of a garden shrub and sang. It was 
the Little Girl who pointed him out. 

He came, I think, from the field where the 
Little Girl went to fill her pitcher at the 
spring. That was a short way to fly, though 
it was a long way to walk from the garden 
across the long field where Queen- Anne’s-lace 
grew in nodding white clusters. It was a long 
way to go even though the walk was made gay 
with flitting yellow and white butterflies. But 
beyond the stone wall was the bluebird field 
where hundreds of bluebirds lived. One had 
only to climb over the stone wall and to sit 
down in the meadow beside the spring, then 
the whole field was alive with song and blue- 
birds. And I think that the bluebird who 
came to the garden had, no doubt, seen the 
Little Girl in the bluebird field and liked her. 
So every day he came to the garden where she 


4 


THE BLUEBIRD S GARDEN 


played and sang a story to her. It may have 
been the magic of the sunlight that helped her 
understand the story. 

“There he is!” she said. And while the 
breeze swayed the leaves on the branch where 
he perched, we listened to the story. It was 
about the garden and the flowers. It was 
about the butterflies in the field beyond the 
garden. It was about the fairies and the 
magic of the clovers. Here is the story that 
the bluebird sang — it is an old, old story. 
Perhaps it is a legend of the garden. 


Why the Butterfly is not 
a Flower 



Why the 



O NCE upon a time th 
den a little grubb| 
and all he did, fror 
was just to crawl about among tt 
wish that he could be a flower, doe 
want to be a little grubby browry cat 
he insisted. “Tell me ' 
into a flower !’ : 

He asked tli 
know; he asked t^ 

— and they didr 
bees and Solomon 
knew ; and when 
ants, they had no pa 
and so they did not 
backs. 

The hoppy-toad ai|d the snails on the gar- 
den path — they did hot know. The 
hopper — he didn’t know. The snail she 


;urned their 



8 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


know at all. So the little grubby brown cater- 
pillar decided to ask the flowers. 

He crawled up the stem of the red rose bush 
and asked her ; but he had to crawl right down 
again, because she didn’t know. He crawled 
up the stem of the tiger-lily; but he had to 
crawl right down again, because she didn’t 
know. He crawled up the stem of the cinna- 
mon pink; but he had to crawl right down 
again, for she didn’t know, and he had to 
crawl right down again , after he’d been up the 
stem of the mignonette for she didn’t know, 
either! 

Just after he had asked the hollyhock and 
w r as going down her gray-green stem, he ran 
BUMP into a little teeny-weeny elfman! 

“Oh, Elfman,” cried the little grubby brown 
caterpillar, “can you tell me how I can change 
myself into a flower?” 

And the little teeny-weeny elfman answered 
in a surprised and little teeny-weeny voice, 
“O! excuse me — no, I cannot. You’d better 
go to the Four-Leaf Clover Fairy. Her 
throne is a red clover blossom in the buttercup 
field. She sits there wishing wishes all the 
time.” 

So the little grubby brown caterpillar said, 


WHY THE BUTTERFLY IS NOT A FLOWER 9 

“I thank you very much indeed,” and he hur- 
ried as fast as all his little feet could go 
straight to the buttercup field to find the 
Four-Leaf Clover Fairy. 

She was sitting on her throne wishing 
wishes, of course, but she stopped long enough 
to say, “How do you do, little grubby brown 
caterpillar!” And the little grubby brown 
caterpillar replied that he did very ill and that 
he wanted to change himself into a flower. 

The Four-Leaf Clover Fairy said that it 
would not be as easy as it might seem to change 
him into a flower, but she offered to try. She 
told him he would first have to find a magic 
clover and bring it back to her so that she 
could wish his wishes with it. 

So the little grubby brown caterpillar went 
to hunt for a four-leaf clover. He hunted — 
and he hunted — and he HUNTED. (You 
know yourself how hard it is to find a four- 
leaf clover when you want one. Dearest.) 
Well, he hunted — and he hunted till, finally, 
after a long while, he found one — so all was 
well and he carried it back to the fairy. 

“Now,” said she, “you must work hard and 
weave yourself a wishing-blanket — but I can’t 
tell you how to do that. Y ou will have to think 


10 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


hard and work hard, and when you have made 
your wishing-blanket, curl up and go to sleep 
to dream of waking as a flower. But one thing 
I must caution you about — when you wake 
you must remember that flowers are always 
quiet and still. Don’t move except as the 
flowers do when they are blown on their stems 
in the breeze.” 

And she promised to bring seven fairies with 
her and dance about him when the wishing- 
web was finished and he had gone to dream. 
That was the fairy spell — three times round 
and once more for luck. They were to dance 
about the little grubby brown caterpillar and 
wish him changed to a flower while he was 
dreaming. 

So, it all happened as it should, Dearest: 
the little grubby brown caterpillar worked, 
and he worked — and he wished and he wished 
— and he made himself a warm little woven 
covering to lie down in and dream. (You have 
seen a butterfly’s wishing-blanket ever so many 
times, though most people call it only a 
“cocoon.”) And the fairies came to dance 
their spell — three times round and once more 
for luck. The Four-Leaf Clover Fairy called, 
“One, two, three, all wish together!” And all 


WHY THE BUTTERFLY IS NOT A FLOWER 


11 


the fairies wished that the little grubby brown 
caterpillar might be changed into a flower. 
But the funny thing about it was that they 
hadn’t agreed beforehand just what kind of a 
flower to make him, so when each wished, each 
thought of a different kind of flower from what 
the other seven were thinking about. One 
thought of the lily that is white ; one thought 
of the dahlia that is brown; one thought of 
the purple violet and another of the deep crim- 
son poppy; one thought of the dull green 
mignonette and another of the black and gold 
coreopsis; one thought of the bright yellow 
buttercup, and another of the sapphire blue 
of the gentian, and so the wishing magic was 
made. 

After a long while, the little grubby brown 
caterpillar woke up in the warmth of the morn- 
ing sunlight and he found that he was a little 
grubby brown caterpillar no longer, for he saw 
that he looked like a flower — though what 
flower he could not tell. He felt so happy 
that he forgot all about the Fairy’s warning 
and he jumped right up into the air for very 
joy. His petals that should have been flower 
petals became wings instead and he went sail- 
ing away over the meadows, lighting now and 


12 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


then upon the flowers to find out which one he 
was most like. But he never found out, Dear- 
est! Even to this very day, you will see the 
butterflies hovering over the flowers as he did. 
And the reason that there are so many dif- 
ferent colors in the butterfly’s wing is that the 
fairies forgot to agree upon one flower to make 
him like when they danced and wished the 
magic spell. This is a secret — and I’ll tell 
you another. This is why the mischievous 
pansies in the garden bed always seem to be 
laughing. The little teeny-weeny elfman told 
them the joke and so they smile when the but- 
terfly flits past. It was the fairies themselves 
who told me! 

“It was a nice story ” said the little girl , 
when the bluebird ended. “Will he come 
again?” 

And I nodded . The garden was the blue- 
bird's and he loved the Little Girl. I knew 
he would come again . 


The Princess and Her Bird 


We were watching for the bluebird for we 
knew that he would come. He was free as 
the breeze and the summer air to go where he 
chose. And he chose to come to sing to the 
Little Girl , a new story full of the sunlight , 
and the flowers. He came on a pleasant day 
straight from the bluebird field to the garden 
where the Little Girl was playing. We had 
been waiting for his story and as the Little 
Girl lay on the grass , he perched on his little 
green tree and sang it to her. ... It was the 
story of the Littlest Bird in All the Wide > 
Wide World. 



The Prin 

O NCE upon a time there wi 
who had, as a pet, the smi 
all the world. She tied 
golden cord around the bin 
the other end to her wrist 
the bird into a jeweled cage, t 
were pure gold. But the 
happy, for it wished to gc^j 
garden flowers. 4 4 Oh, let — * 

But the princess shook 
you,” she said. 

“If you did love me,” repli 
would wish me to be happy; 
happy till I am free.” ig 

Still the princess shook her “You are 

the smallest bird in all the wide she 

said. “If I were to let you go, you would have 
no golden cage. Where would you find shelter 
and food?” 


“you 
:ver be 


16 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


“I should find the open sunlight better than 
a golden cage, and my food would be the 
sweetness of the flowers,” the bird pleaded. 

“Oh, little bird, you would never return to 
me!” 

“No,” said the little bird, “I should never 
come back, for I do not love you. You bound 
me with a golden cord.” 

Then the princess thought, “If the bird does 
not love me, I will not keep it against its will. 
I love it so much that I wish it to be happy. 
Perhaps, if I let it go, it will love me a little 
in return.” 

So she cut the cord and let the bird out into 
the wide world where the trees and flowers 
grow. 

Then its happiness was as wide as the wind. 
It flitted hither and thither in the sunlight all 
day. Its little feathers that had been brown 
turned to emerald, and ruby, and amethyst, 
and sapphire, and topaz, for those were the 
colors of the flowers that it visited. But one 
day, as it went from flower to flower, it came 
upon a rose. In the heart of the rose there lay 
a tear that was like crystal. “The princess 
passed this way,” said the rose. “She mourns 
because she is lonely without her little bird. 


THE PRINCESS AND HER BIRD 17 

It has flown away. I am keeping one of her 
tears.” 

“Poor princess,” said the little bird, “I am 
her bird! I do love her! She gave me the 
sunlight and the flowers. I will go back, and 
I will comfort her. I shall miss my freedom 
but I shall have her love.” 

So the little bird flew back to the princess. 
“It was your love that brought me,” said the 
bird. “I have been happy in the sunlight and 
the flowers. See! Where I have dipped into 
the bloom of the garden all my throat has be- 
come ruby, and amethyst, and sapphire, and 
topaz; for the flowers are the jewels of the 
wide, wide world and I have found their 
magic.” 

The princess did not bind the bird with 
golden cord. It was ever after as free to come 
and go as the breeze of the garden. Both the 
princess and the bird were happy in each 
other’s love. 

Some day when you go into the garden, you 
may see the princess’ bird. It is the smallest 
bird that there is in all the wide, wide world 
and the feathers about its throat are like jewels 
— ruby and sapphire, topaz, and amethyst. 
As the little bird flits from flower to flower, it 


18 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


hums a song about the princess and her love, 
and perhaps, because of its humming song, 
you will call it a humming-bird. 

“My little bird comes and goes” said the 
Little Girl when the bluebird had finished. 
Already the blue of his wings had melted into 
the blue of the sky. Only the bluebird's story 
was left. 

“He will come again to-morrow” the Little 
Girl said. “He will sing another story then.” 
And he did. 


The Elf and the Penny Tree 


The Little Girl's black pussy-cat came to 
sit with us in the shadow of the little green 
tree next morning . She was a well-behaved 
pussy-cat, else the bluebird would never have 
ventured into the garden , I am sure. She lay 
in the Little Girl's lap and when the bluebird 
came to sing his morning story to his Little 
Girl, the pussy-cat snoozed on, purring. 
Whether she understood the story, nobody 
knows. It was about a penny — and, really, 
it is to be doubted whether a pussy-cat knows 
what a penny is. 

This is the bluebird's morning story that he 
sang to his Little Girl. 



IV 

The Elf and the Pjgyffy 

O NCE upon a time there 
elf who was so dull 
know the difference betweer 
wrong. As he walked through 
day he chanced to find a bent ; 
gravel walk. 

“Hello!” he cried. ‘Tma, 

What shall I do with n^pe| 
never thought to look about 
who might have lost that penny^h$| 
it into his pocket. 

He passed by a prince, a 
with a long gray beard,arif 
little bird, a princess, a cat, 
jogged along the garden path^ 
pocket, and never so much 
he had found a penny that 
him. The prince might have beeK^ looking- 
for it; the fairy might have been looking for 
it ; the dwarf with the long gray beard might 


one 


ned that 
elonef to 


22 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


have been looking for it; the little bird, or the 
princess, or the cat, or the fox might have been 
looking for the lost bent penny, but the little 
elf did not stop to find out. He went on his 
way and patted his pocket. 

“I know what I will do,” he thought. “I 
will plant my penny deep in the earth, and let 
it sprout and grow up into a penny-tree. 
When it grows large, I shall be rich. Then I 
will buy me a castle and a coach, and eat noth- 
ing but chocolate creams and ice-cream all the 
rest of my life.” 

So he dug a deep hole right in the green 
garden lawn, and he planted the bent penny. 

When the penny was safely planted, the 
little elf began to plan about the crop of pen- 
nies that he was to gather from his penny-tree. 

“I shall need somewhere to put them,” he 
thought, “because others might come and find 
them. I will dig a long tunnel in the earth all 
around the roots of my penny-tree. No one 
will be the wiser.” And he began to dig. 

The prince passed by while he was at work ; 
the fairy, the dwarf with the long gray beard, 
the little bird, the princess, the cat, and the fox 
all passed by and saw the elf digging. They 
had none of them missed a bent penny from 


THE ELF AND THE PENNY TREE 


one of their pockets; but a bent penny is a 
bent penny, and they could have told the little 
elf that it did not belong to him, and that he 
ought to try to find the owner. 

Now the fox, who came last, was shrewd. 
“Hello !” said he to the cat. “Why is that elf 
digging so hard?” 

“Why, indeed?” asked the cat, the princess, 
the little bird, the dwarf with the long gray 
beard, and the fairy. 

But the prince thought, “Why, he may be 
digging for treasure, and I will dig, too!” So 
he began to dig. 

Now the elf was so busy tunneling into the 
ground, making a place to bury the pennies 
from his penny-tree, that he never once noticed 
that the prince was digging also. He was quite 
surprised when the prince suddenly threw up 
his cap, and shouted, “Oh, I’ve found a bent 
penny!” For the prince had been digging 
right over the place where the elf had planted 
the penny that he hoped would grow up to be 
a penny-tree. 

“Oh,” cried the fairy, “it must be my bent 
penny, for I have just missed one from my 
pocket! Who could have buried it?” 

They all turned to the little elf, who was so 


24 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


dull that he did not know right from wrong. 
“I found it on the garden walk,” replied the 
elf, “so it belonged to me, and I did not bury 
it! I just planted it to let it grow up into a 
penny-tree. I found it. It belonged to me, 
didn’t it?” 

Then the prince, the fairy, the little dwarf 
with the long gray beard, the little bird, the 
princess, the cat, and the fox all said, “It didn’t 
belong to you. You ought to have asked, and 
tried to find the owner. You ought to have 
asked every one!” 

“Fie!” called the prince. “Fie!” called the 
little dwarf with the long gray beard. “Fie!” 
called the little bird, and the princess. “Fie!” 
called the cat and the fox, for they all knew 
better. 

The little elf was ashamed. But the fairy, 
who had not said “Fie!” put her arm around 
the elf. “Go away,” she said to the prince, 
and the little dwarf, and the little bird, and 
the princess, the cat and the fox. “Don’t say 
any more! It was my penny and I think he 
didn’t know right from wrong, but he does 
know now, and he’ll never do it again.” 

So together they planted the bent penny 
again, after the prince, the dwarf with the long 


THE ELF AND THE PENNY TREE 


25 


gray beard, the little bird, the princess, the cat, 
and the fox had gone on their way. 

And when the little elf found anything on 
the garden walk after that, he went out of his 
way to ask the prince, or the little dwarf, or 
the fairy, or the little bird, or the princess, or 
the cat, or the fox if they knew to whom it 
belonged. 

When he had finished , he flirted his tail and 
looked down at the pussy-cat . Perhaps he did 
so became there was a pussy-cat in the story — 
who knows? “I will come again , again,” he 
sang as he flew away . 



The Three Brother Dwarfs 


r 


The pussy-cat was not there with us next 
morning . It was a gray morning and the sky 
was covered with soft white fleecy cloud . The 
hollyhocks bloomed bright against it, standing 
tall and straight in long lines of red, and white, 
and yellow flowers. 

And about ten o'clock the bluebird came to 
his tree to tell a new story. Maybe the sum- 
mer breeze that brushed the leaves softly — 
perhaps it too listened to the story, for it was 
very quiet, as quiet as the Little Girl who sat 
on the grass listening to the bluebird's story. 



V 

The Three Brother Dwarfs 


NCE upon a time there lived three poor 
little dwarfs in a tumble-down house 
in the midst of a tumble-down garden 
and each dwarf owned 


was stingy. He did his 
and cotton batting and 
third bureau drawer. “I 
he, “where nobody can 
my mug. My mug shall 
and when I need a mug to 
use one that belongs to 


was selfish. He 
“I am going to 
myself. It be- 
a mug to drink 
themselves.” 
was generous. “I’m 


30 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


so glad that I own a pretty mug!” he chuckled 
to himself. “Every one can use it. It is the 
very thing to offer a thirsty traveler who stops 
at our tumble-down house to ask for a drink 
of water. My brothers can use it, too. I am 
sure they will both be quite as careful of it as 
if it belonged to them. We need only the one 
mug, for we share and share alike, because we 
love one another.” 

Now one day there came a traveler over the 
dusty highway. He w r as thirsty and tired. 
He saw the well in the midst of the tumble- 
down garden that belonged to the tumble- 
down house, and he went up to the door of the 
house and knocked, rat-tat-tat ! 

The stingy little dwarf was yawning in the 
parlor, because he never did any work — he let 
the others do it. When he heard the rat-tat- 
tat ! he kept very quiet. 

The selfish little dwarf was in the dining- 
room, pretending to sweep — but he was only 
sweeping the crumbs under the mat, for he did 
not like to clean. He heard the rat-tat-tat! 
but he pretended that he was too busy to 
answer it. 

The third little dw T arf was in the kitchen, 
scrubbing the hearth with a mop. His sleeves 


THE THREE BROTHER DWARFS 


31 


were rolled up, and he had overalls on, but he 
could not bear to keep a tired traveler waiting 
at the door. “I must go at once,” he thought. 
And he went. 

“Come right to the well,” he said. “I will 
get a mug and give you a drink of our 
nice cold water. You must be tired, for 
the highway is warm and dusty.” He set the 
best chair for the traveler, and gave him a 
fan. 

He went to fetch his mug. But what do 
you think! When he found it at last, it was 
soiled — and the stingy dwarf had carelessly 
broken the handle off, and the selfish dwarf 
had dropped it on the floor and nicked the 
rim! “Oh! Oh! It is not fit for company 
use!” cried the generous little dwarf. “I must 
have something better!” 

He asked Stingy to let him take his. 

“No. You can’t take mine,” said Stingy. 
“Nobody can ever use it. It is all put away. 
It is mine and I won’t lend it to anybody.” 

Then he asked Selfish to let him take his 
mug. 

“No,” said Selfish. “I can’t let you take 
my mug. Give him yours. What do you care 
if that one is nicked ! What do you care if the 


32 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


handle is off ! The mug is good enough for a 
beggar, I should think!” 

So there was nothing for the generous little 
dwarf to do except to take his own broken 
mug to the stranger. But he cut some slices 
of bread and put them on the prettiest plate 
he could find for he thought the traveler might 
be hungry, too. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t a better mug to offer 
you,” he said, “but the others were all put 
away. They belong to my brothers. Oh, I 
wish that they could come out to see you — 
they are so nice, — but they said they were too 
busy at present. Stingy is dusting the parlor, 
and Selfish is brushing up the dining-room. 
Their mugs are nicer than mine, because they 
always know just how to take care of their 
things. Wouldn’t you like some more bread? 
I am sorry we haven’t butter to offer you — but 
we never buy it.” 

The traveler thanked Generous for all he 
had done. He said, “I am so grateful to you 
that I should like to do something for you be- 
fore I go. I should like to give you something 
to remember me by. Let me take your mug 
again, little dwarf. Have you a big pail that 
I can use?” 


THE THREE BROTHER DWARFS 


33 


“Oh, yes,” returned the generous little 
dwarf. “I have one.” He ran to the kitchen 
and rinsed out the one he had been using. 

The stranger took the broken mug that had 
lost its handle and had a chipped rim, and he 
began to dip water from the bucket of the well 
into the pail. 

At the first dip, the handle came back to the 
mug and the mug became quite whole and new 
again. At the second dip, the mop-pail turned 
to gold. At the third dip, the tumble-down 
house and the tumble-down garden became 
wonderfully fresh and splendid. At the 
fourth dip, the cupboards of the house where 
the poor little dwarfs lived became filled with 
pots, and kettles, and good things to eat. At 
the fifth dip, Stingy and Selfish came running 
out of the house, and they were changed! 
They were not stingy or selfish any longer 
but were like their brother, generous, and good, 
and loving. They carried their mugs and gave 
them to the stranger. And they kissed the 
generous little brother dwarf. The one who 
had been stingy said he was sorry he had never 
helped with the work. And the one who had 
been selfish said that he was sorry, too, and 
that he would never sweep crumbs under the 


34 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


mat again — for it only made work for other 
people to do. And at the sixth and seventh 
dip of water from the well-bucket into the pail, 
all the water turned to gold coins ! 

Then the stranger bade them all good-bye, 
and went on his way toward his journey’s end. 

Who was he? — A good fairy, no doubt. He 
may have heard of the generous little dwarf, 
and wanted to help him. If that were so, he 
probably wanted to help Stingy and Selfish, 
too, and make them into Good and Happy. 
At any rate, they all lived happily ever after, 
and the mug that belonged to the generous 
little dwarf was kept by the well-side for all 
thirsty travelers to use. 

“1 want to be happy and good " said the 
Little Girl when the bluebird's story had 
ended for that morning . Sometime , I will 
leave my china mug at the spring , when I go 
there for water. Perhaps a thirsty traveler 
will find it. And I think the bluebird would 
like to have it in his field don't you?" 


Slowasapoke , the Snail 


When the bluebird came , neoct morning , we 
were busy watching a little black ant that was 
crawling along a twig . We had not forgotten 
the bluebird or that he was coming to tell us 
a story , but we were surprised to look up and 
see him for he had come without our knowing 
it. The story that he sang was about a little 
black ant , so perhaps he had seen what we were 
doing, before we saw him perched singing on 
his tree. 


VI 

Slowasapoke, the Snail 

O NCE upon a time, there lived a wise 
ant, a clever spider, a busy bee, and a 
slow snail. They all lived in the same 
garden. The ant lived under a stone; the 
spider lived in a crack of the high garden wall ; 
the bee lived in a hive ; the slow snail lived in 
the house that he carried on his back, and he 
stayed on the garden path. 

Now the ant, the spider, and the bee under- 
stood each other well. They shared each 
other’s wisdom and cleverness, and they ap- 
proved of the busy bee’s buzzing; but they 
scorned the snail on the garden walk. 

“What a stupid snail!” the ant used to say, 
proud of her own wisdom. 

“What a slow creature!” the spider used to 
say, thinking of her own quickness. 

“What a lazy snail!” the bee would buzz. 
“Why doesn’t the snail do something? Is he 
going to remain forever in that one place on 


38 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


the garden walk, I wonder? Some day I in- 
tend to fly wide of the garden and over the 
wall. ,, 

“Yes,” replied the spider, “I, too, intend to 
seek my fortune beyond the garden wall. 
Fortune awaits cleverness. I, too, shall go 
some day.” 

“Yes, yes,” declared the ant. “Some day I 
will go also. I am not like the snail who is 
content to live on the garden walk, inching 
along toward nowhere.” 

This each said many times when he was not 
occupied with his own wisdom, or cleverness, 
or business. And every time they had said it, 
if they had but noticed, the slow snail had 
progressed one inch farther toward the garden 
gate. 

One day, when the ant had been more than 
usually wise, and the spider more than usually 
clever, and when the bee had buzzed more 
busily than ever, they each thought of Slow- 
asapoke, the snail, who was doing nothing 
either wise, or clever, or bustling. 

“I think,” said the wise ant, “that it must be 
a sorry thing to be as stupid as a snail.” 

“Or as slow,” put in the clever spider. 

“Or as lazy,” added the buzzing bee. 


SL0WA8AP0KE, THE SNAIL 


39 


“Yes! Yes!” cried the ant, the spider, and 
the buzzing bee in chorus. With one accord 
they glanced at the garden walk where the 
snail used to be — but there was no snail there ! 
He had been inching along toward the garden 
gate slowly and surely, and he had long ago 
passed under the garden gate and out into the 
wide, beautiful world to seek his fortune. 

“1 liked the snail best” said the Little Girl. 
And the bluebird nodded his little head. He 
was a wise bluebird. Yes , he was. 

“And where do you get your stories , Blue- 
bird?” the Little Girl asked. “From the wind, 
and the clouds, and the sunlight ” the bluebird 
answered — “from the fairies, and the elves, 
and the flowers .” 




















r 


The Fable of the Wish 
































Next time the bluebird came to his little 
tree, the Little Girl was busy weeding her 
garden . She looked up, when she heard the 
first notes of his song . She came to sit under 
the bluebird's little tree to listen . The story, 
this time, was all about a garden . 



VII 

The Fable of th 


NCE upon a time there 
who wanted a garden, 
out playing one day he 

i 


patch and in it a four-leaved 
“Perhaps, now, I shall have 
he thought to himself. “I have 
leaved clover and that means good 
shall wish for a garden to grow 
place of the clover patch, 

But days and days parsed 
sprang up. Nothing blo^%e 
white clover. 

“I might be more lucky,” 
sidered, “if I had more four- 
Yet when he searched, all he 
one tiny clover leaf 
When he picked it, he 
gray man hiding under it. 

“Hello !” exclaimed the 


man, 


44 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


“Hello! Do you understand the clover 
language ?” 

“Why, yes,” returned the little boy. “Four- 
leaved clovers mean good luck and five-leaved 
clovers mean bad luck.” 

“Oh!” declared the wee, gray man, “You 
don’t understand at all, I see ! They certainly 
told you something more!” 

“First they told me I’d be lucky and I sup- 
posed that that meant my wish would come 
true — but it didn’t. And now I understand 
why. I just found a five-leaf clover that 
brings ill luck.” 

“No. You don’t understand,” the wee, gray 
man insisted. “The first clover leaf meant 
good fortune, but the second was to show you 
that no amount of wishing on four-leaved 
clovers could make your wish come true. If 
you want anything very, very badly, you must 
work for it. What do you want?” 

“A garden,” the little boy replied. 

“Have you dug the earth?” questioned the 
wee, gray man. 

“No.” 

“Have you planted seed and cared for the 
tender young plants?” 

“No.” 


THE FABLE OF THE WISH 


45 


“Then how can you expect that Luck will 
give you a garden, or that your wish will come 
true?” 

The little boy hung his head. “I hadn’t 
thought about that. I will go and dig the 
earth of the clover patch right away,” he said. 

So he dug the earth, and he planted the 
seeds, and he tended his little garden. Some- 
times he worked very hard all day over it for 
it needed much care. He weeded and he 
watered and watched every tiny bud and 
flower till by and by, after a long, long while, 
the place that had been a clover patch was the 
very garden that the little boy had wished to 
have. 

“Hurrah!” he sang while he lived amongst 
the bloom and the blossoming of all its sweet- 
ness, “I have my wish at last! How lucky I 
am!” 

Then beside him, he saw the wee, wee gray 
man dancing up and down upon the garden 
walk. 

“Oh! who are you?” asked the little boy. 
“You helped me long ago. If it hadn’t been 
for you, I should have been wishing for my 
garden still. I should never have known how 
to make it.” 


46 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


The wee, gray man smiled. “My name is 
Pluck,” he answered. “Some people persist 
in calling me Luck but there really is no such 
person as Luck anywhere. I am the fairy 
they mean. I am the fairy of all green clover 
leaves and their wishes. And remember this: 
Wishing alone is worth nothing. You must 
work for what you desire. Only Pluck can tell 
you how to go about to make the wish come 
true.” 

“That’s why 1 was weeding ” the Little Girl 
said, when the bluebird had finished . “I want 
to have a garden . There shall be pansies in 
mine , and bluebells — and there shall be no 
weeds.” 

I think the bluebird heard what the little 
girl said for he looked as if he had. But he 
flew away after the story, and the Little Girl 
went back to work at her garden. 


The Sand-Box and the Shell 


Next time the bluebird came in the morning , 
the Little Girl was 'playing in the sunlight in 
the sand-box . There was fine white sand from 
the shore in the sand-box. There were shells 
there, too . Perhaps it was the largest pink 
shell that made the bluebird think of his story 
— maybe — who knows. He never told the 
Little Girl at all. 


VIII 



The Sand-Box^nd the Shell 


O NCE upon a time, 
dren’s sand-box 
shade of green 
den. Every day, when it 
children came to play with 
built tall castles and they 
ful things but it was never ( 
ging in a real beach where 
meet the incoming ripples 
welcoming arms to meet the 
dren missed the blue ocean and, 
known it, the sand-box, also, 

All day long while the 
the sand-box dreamed of the 
long, long time since its sand 
the shore. It remembered how th 
looked at sunrise and how 
path to the shore when the 
remembered how the seaweed 
the tide and how beautiful the 
bles were. There 


was a chil- 
beneath the 
a sunny gar- 
the 
They 


50 


THE BLUEBIRD S GARDEN 


dren’s sand-box and the pebbles that lay on 
the garden walk had not the magic of turning 
into precious stones — red, and white, and pink, 
and green, and golden for they had no blue 
sea to change them into jewels. 

One day when the children came to their 
sand-box, a wonderful thing happened: they 
brought with them a shell — a shell that was 
storm-carved, shaped like the swirl of a great 
sea w T ave. Its inside was tinted with the seven 
magic shades of wonder. It was like opal, 
fiery yet full of vague cloud colors. All the 
mystery of shifting tides was in the shell and 
all the dear dreams of wide ocean silences. 

Now, the shell was very lonely, too, and it 
longed for the blue sea just as the little chil- 
dren’s sand-box longed also. While the chil- 
dren played their games, the shell lay on the 
warm yellow sand and thought of the long 
beautiful beach that was its home — and the 
little children’s sand-box gazed at the shell 
and as it gazed it heard the roar of the breakers 
that washed the shells before them up on the 
beach long, long ago! 

At evening, the children ran off and left the 
shell lying in the sand. Then the shell and 
the sand had a quiet talk together — yet the 


THE SAND-BOX AND THE SHELL 51 

shell did not tell the little children’s sand-box 
how happy it had made it when it helped to 
bring back the dream of the blue sea and the 
sand-box did not tell the shell how it brought 
the song of the ocean’s wonderful call closer. 

Next day, when the children came to play, 
they carried off the wonderful shell, but the 
shell and the sand-box dreamed on and their 
dreams were very happy because each had 
brought to the other that which it loved best. 

The sand-box out under the shade of the 
green trees on the lawn was thinking of the 
blue, blue sea and the stories that the shell had 
told it, and the shell lay dreaming in the chil- 
dren’s playroom, dreaming of the sand and the 
far away silent beach. And the children, and 
the sand-box, and the shell needed no words to 
tell each other that they were friends, for all 
had the same dreams of the great, blue, far- 
away sea. 

“I think I shall like my garden sand-box 
even better now ” the Little Girl said as the 
bluebird flew away. “I shall leave the big pink 
shell here to-night , when the sun sets. Maybe 
it will like to dream of the ocean — and maybe 
the sand-box will be happy with it, too.” 



Where the Sea Shell Found 
Its Song 


The pink sea shell was lying on the sand 
when the bluebird came at his appointed time 
next day . He saw the shell. Perhaps that 
was why he chose to tell another story about 
the sand and the sea. It may have been the 
wind that told him — the wind blew over the 
bluebird field from where the bluebird came. 
Beyond, far, far away, one could see the blue 
line of the water and the white sails of little 
boats. So, perhaps the wind told the bluebird 
the story when he was still a little bird. 




Where the 

Its 


H AVE you ever run 
where the sand is 
like the sunlight and 
along the shore at the 
blue waves to change into [ 
ever picked up a pink shell 
your ear to hear the song of 
it? If you have, you will 
the sea shell found that song. 

A long, long time ago, 
blue waves broke into 
spray at the edge of the 
made the sand and the 
deep sea came back and 
and play with them. It 
powdery sand and the rocks it cut into 
colored pebbles. It hung garlands of 
upon the stones and it touched the stones at the 
water’s edge to make each one magic with a 


sea beach 


56 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


luster that changed them to rubies, and emer- 
alds, sapphires, and topaz. 

Tiny crabs came to live in the rocks and 
star-fish sunned themselves on the sand as the 
tide came in. It was then that the sea-fairies 
came to live in the shells. 

Each chose its own tiny home. Some lived 
in pink shells and some lived in yellow ones. 
And the sea fairies were very, very happy — 
so happy that they always sang to themselves 
in their own little homes that were shells. 
The songs were about the blue sea and its 
feathery white-capped waves ; they were about 
the mist and the spray about the cliffs; they 
were about the boom of the surf and the swish 
of the tide on long level sea-beaches. They 
were about the sea-birds and the gardens of 
sea-weed. They were about the deep sea 
where it melts into the wide blue sky at the 
horizon. All the songs found an echo in the 
waves that broke upon the sands and the rocks. 

And after the sea fairies had lived in their 
little homes, happy and singing, they went 
back to the deep sea again. Where they went, 
nobody knew. Since that time, there have 
been no sea fairies. They went back to the 
wide blue ocean. 


WHERE THE SEA SHELL FOUND ITS SONG 


57 


But the songs they had sung echoed within 
each sea shell and stayed there. That is why 
when you hold a sea shell to your ear and listen, 
you can always hear the song of the sea. 

The Little Girl held the shell to her ears , 
when the story was finished . She sat that way 
a long , long time listening . When she started 
from her reverie the bluebird had flown away 
but the pink shell was in her lap and she had 
heard the song of the sea fairies. 


The Silly Little Elf 


“I want a funny story to-day ” laughed the 
Little Girl. “I shall ash the bluebird for one! 
Do you suppose he will come?” 

And he did — exactly at this moment. He 
found the Little Girl still smiling and he began 
his story at once. It was all about a silly little 
elf , his spoon and his penny. 



X 

The Silly Littl 

O NCE upon a time, ther _ 

little elf who owned a silver l 
spoon, and a penny. th£se 

help him he set out into the yedi(f toward 
fortune. 1/ „ ^ 

He had not gone very far vmej 
black beetle scurrying lickety-split 
path. 

“Hello,” exclaimed the elf, “whe 
going?” 

“Up and down, ovei^the e§ 
beetle. “I will take yoc 
if you will pay me for the ride.* 

So the elf gave the beetle his 
rode upon the beetle’s back 
along lickety-split. But the} 
far, when the beetle be 
sent the silly elf sprawlm| 
the dust. The beetle himself .] 
kicking in the air and he 


62 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


go on till the silly little elf tugged him to his 
feet. Then he said, “I can’t cany you any 
farther, unless you pay me something more!” 

So the elf gave the beetle his spoon and rode 
upon his back while he scurried along lickety- 
split. But they had not traveled very far when 
the beetle bumped into a tree-trunk and sent 
the silly little elf sprawling on his back in the 
dirt. The beetle himself lay with his heels 
kicking in the air and he would not get up or 
go on till the silly little elf tugged him to his 
feet. Then, he said, “I won’t carry you any 
farther, unless you pay me something more!” 

And the silly little elf, who had only a penny 
left, gave the beetle the penny and rode upon 
the beetle’s back while he scurried along 
lickety-split. BUT, they hadn’t gone very 
far, when the beetle bumped into a fallen log 
and sent the silly little elf sprawling upon his 
back in the midst of the dried leaves and the 
beetle himself lay with his heels kicking in the 
air and refused to go on, even after he had 
been tugged to his feet. 

The elf had no more to pay him and he was 
a long way from having found his fortune. 
He had parted with his silver coin, his spoon, 
and his penny, and who knows how these 


THE SILLY LITTLE ELF 


63 


might have helped him on the road to fortune, 
if he had not been so silly as to give them in 
exchange for three short rides upon a black 
beetle who carried him nowhere in particular 
and left him to pick himself up and go upon 
his way, walking upon his own two feet, with 
his pockets quite empty. 

When you want to spend a penny foolishly, 
you can think of this story, for even a penny 
that is saved is money in one’s pocket. 

“And I have a penny that 1 haven't spent ” 
the Little Girl smiled . “I have a silver 
spoon, too, in the house — ■" hut the bluebird 
flitted off to a rosebush near-by and he did not 
stay to hear what the Little Girl intended to 
do with her penny . Perhaps he was after a 
nice little green worm — perhaps he was in a 
hurry to go back to the bluebird field where 
he lived . 



Little Mr. Inch 


It was a short story that the bluebird told 
the Little Girl next day . He came to the gar- 
den late in the forenoon , after the usual time . 
What kept him , we did not know . The Little 
Girl was under the tree anxiously waiting , 
when he came . And the story he told was 
about Little Mr. Inch. We had seen somebody 
who looked like him. Perhaps — well , perhaps 
it was his brother. The bluebird never told us 
whether it was or no. 



O NCE upon 
green inchwc! 
bud that 
garden bed. A 
uring things, 
purple-gold si 
among the flo’v 
measurir 
thing by ! 

Now, as t 
measuring 
inch is one m^ 
but for little" 
measurement- 

long, and thenfhe woiM crawl 
so he would n|easure everything 
be measured. 

Things never came out even^ 
fitted the exact size of 


ways of 
ug v^prld; an 
|le is another; 
as oi\ly one 
Id crawl out 
p short, and 
that was to 

hey never 
Mr. Inch. 


68 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


“Every thing is wrong!” declared little Mr. 
Inch. “There is nothing that measures right. 
Everything, everything is wrong!” 

He had just come to the edge of a great, 
green leaf that he had been measuring, and as 
he stood up and looked about to see where he 
should go next, he saw a fuzzy- wuzzy cheerful 
caterpillar coming along the branch. 

“Nice day!” said the fuzzy caterpillar. 

“Bad day!” returned little Mr. Inch. 
“Everything is wrong. There is nothing that 
measures right ! There is nothing that fits my 
size.” 

Indeed, now that the inchworm felt that 
some one was listening, he made a great fuss. 
“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing is right!” 
he declared. 

He made such a fuss that a little bird sitting 
on a twig near by immediately saw him; he 
caught little Mr. Inch in his bill and bore him 
away. 

But the fuzzy-wuzzy, cheerful caterpillar 
turned and curled himself up on the great 
green leaf in the sunshine of the garden; he 
was larger than little Mr. Inch, but somehow 
and somewhere he had learned never to meas- 
ure things by himself, and so he was happy in 


LITTLE MR. INCH 


69 


the garden, sunning himself on the great green 
leaf. 

“And was the caterpillar the one that 
changed into a butterfly ?” ashed the Little 
Girl . 

“Perhaps,” replied the bluebird . “The 
world is full of other little inch worms and 
other cheerful caterpillars” 

“I think Til go look for some,” said the 
Little Girl and presently she had found a nice 
cheer fid caterpillar crawling along the garden- 
bed not far from where the Johnnie- jump-ups 
were in the border . She was watching him 
when the bluebird flew down from his perch 
on the little tree and winged his silent way out 
of his garden . 



The First April Fool that 

Ever Was 


The sun had been shining and hiding behind 
the clouds all the morning in turns , when the 
Little Girl put on her rubbers and came out to 
play in the garden. She was wondering 
whether it would rain or no — whether the blue- 
bird would come to tell his story if it showered. 
But he came — he came! And the rain held 
off — and the sun did shine for a little while. 
It shone all the time that the bluebird sang 
and the story was all about the sun's April 
fooling. 


XII 

The First April Fool that 
Ever Was 

D ID you ever hear about the first April 
fool joke that the world ever knew? 
I dare say you have not, unless the sun 
himself told you. He was the one who made 
it, you know. 

He had been thinking about it for a long 
time, just as you and I plan out our April 
fool jokes. When the morning of April first 
came he hid behind the clouds and watched to 
see what would happen, just as you and I 
hide to see how our jokes will turn out. 

Of course the sky was all dark without him. 
It was a gray morning and the clouds in the 
east looked like rain. Indeed, it was so dismal 
that all the little elves and the fairies who lived 
in fields and garden places looked up at the 
sky before starting off to school. 

“Shall we take our umbrellas ?” they asked 
of the fairy godmothers. 


74 the bluebird’s garden I 

“Certainly, certainly!” all the fairy god- 
mothers answered, “and be sure to put on your 
overshoes, too! It is going to rain to-day. 
The sun is quite hidden.” 

So all the little elves and the fairies scam- 
pered about hunting for their toadstool um- 
brellas and their cherry-petal goloshes. When 
they had found them, they ran off quite fast 
over the meadows toward the Goblin School. 
The toadstool umbrellas were in the way when 
they ran and the cherry-petal goloshes felt 
warm and uncomfortable — and the little elves 
and the fairies had spent so much time hunt- 
ing them up that they were afraid they were 
going to be late! 

“Oh! umbrellas are such a nuisance,” they 
cried, “but we have to carry them,” they added, 
“because it is surely going to rain. The sun 
is all hidden in the sky.” 

At these words, the big round sun, hidden 
behind the clouds, chuckled. “Ha-ha,” he 
laughed and he thrust his smiling face through 
them and winked at the little elves and fairies 
running toward the Goblin School cumbered 
with umbrellas and goloshes. “April fool!” 
he cried. “Didn’t I fool you all splendidly — 
it isn’t going to be a rainy day at all!” 


THE FIRST APRIL FOOL THAT EVER WAS 


75 


Now the reason that April is such a sun- 
shiny, showery month is that the old sun is 
never tired of playing over and over again that 
same old April joke. Why, he thinks it so 
funny that he has never yet been able to give 
up playing it, even after the first day of the 
month ! 

Just as the bluebird finished the last word 
of the story , the rain came . It sent the blue- 
bird flying to shelter that was better than the 
limb of the little tree and the Little Girl picked 
up her doll hurriedly and scurried for the 
house . “If s just an old joke ” she panted , 
when she had reached the porch . “The blue- 
bird ought to have known. I think the sun is 
coming out now — yes! See!” 

Far away — perhaps in the bluebird field, a 
bluebird was singing after the rain of the 
shower. Maybe it was the Little GirVs blue- 
bird calling to her. It was too far away for us 
to catch the full meaning of his song. 



The Fountain Goldfish 


We were watching the goldfish that the 
Little Girl had put in the garden fountain 
when the bluebird came next day. The fish 
was shy of coming to the surface, though the 
Little Girl coaxed and coaxed. When the 
bluebird came, the Little Girl told him about 
it. (( Why doesn't he come, bluebird?" she 
ashed. 

And in answer, the bluebird told the story. 
It was about the first fountain goldfish long, 
long ago — the fish who thought himself so 
splendid, just because — ah, well, the bluebird 
told the story, and here it is. 



XIII 

The Fountain G 



O NCE upon a time, there |ra 
who lived by himself in ai^ga 
tain. He swam hither 
among the shells and water-plaiifi 
long he swam hither and thith^ 
now darting from spot to spot li! 
red gold. Always, as he glid 
clear, cool water, he thought < 
of his scales and how very beat| 

One day, while he was thus occupied, a 
shadow fell across the sunlit water of the 
fountain where the goldfish was lazily waving 
his fins far down close to the sand and pebbles 
of the basin. He looked up to see a little boy 
standing by the rim of the fountain gazing 
down at him. “Ah,” said the goldfish to him- 
self, “I am being ADMIRED — how lovely 
I am ! I will swim up to the top of the water 
so that the little boy may see me better! I 
will listen and hear what he says!” 


80 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


So the goldfish darted to the edge of the 
water. He stared at the little boy and opened 
wide his fishy mouth for he had the grace to 
feel foolish, trying to show himself off I He 
turned from side to side waving his golden 
tail and while he did so, he opened his wide 
fishy eyes and his wide fishy mouth and 
listened to hear what the little boy would say 
about him. 

“I don’t think you’re pretty at all,” said the 
little boy — “no, not at all! You’re making 
foolish faces and trying to show off.” 

The goldfish has been thinking of this ever 
since. It is what makes him so afraid of com- 
ing to the water’s edge now when you and I 
look into the fountain to see him. 

“He doesn't want to show off any more ” 
the Little Girl concluded . “The story sounds 
as if it were true — I think the bluebird must 
have known/' 

And, after the bluebird flew away — after 
his story was told , the Little Girl went to look 
at the fountain goldfish again . It was true 
that he would never come close to the top of 
the water to stay long enough to be admired . 


The Two Birds and the 
Early Worm 

« 


Next day , in the morning , the bluebird 
reached the garden first. He was waiting , im- 
patient to tell his story to the Little Girl. It 
was about the old proverb of the Early Bird. 



will 


The Two 

Early 

O NCE upon a time 
very early, two 
walk in the gaj;d< 
to find the Early W< 
breakfast. The sun hi 
the garden lawQ^Jjut the JBarly 
already crawling across the garden jw£ 
They had no difficulty at all in locating V 
They both saw it at the same instant, 
robin grabbed one end of the Early Wor 
the other, the other — so far so well but 
is not all the story. p ^ x 

“Now,” said the first robin. “We 
divide the Early Worm. I saw it first j 
should have the larger part. ,: 

“No,” said the other bird. “It was 
saw it, so I should have the larger part. 

While they were disputing they lost their 
hold on the Early Worm, and it wiggled away 


84 THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 

as fast as it could and hid in a hole before 
either robin could get it. 

So neither robin had any breakfast that 
morning for, as everyone knows, there is only 
one Early Worm to be found on a spring 
morning at sunrise. If they had but agreed 
to share and share alike, all would have gone 
well — but that is what happens to those who 
are over greedy, sometimes. 

Ever since that day garden worms have a 
way of stretching out quite wonderfully — 
much longer than they really look. That is 
because they are the descendants of the Early 
Worm who was pulled so hard at either end 
by the robins. Perhaps, if the Early Worm 
had not escaped, we should not have had any 
worms nowadays in our gardens. Yes, the 
Early Worm was the ancestor of them all; 
just as the Early Bird, we hear so much about, 
is the great, great grandson of the two robins. 
He hunts for worms on the garden lawn, 
alone, at daybreak on a spring morning. In 
my opinion he is a selfish bird, like the first 
two robins — for all that he puts a premium on 
early rising. If you have watched him you 
know that he never fails to eat all of the worm 
himself. 


THE EARLY WORM 


85 


“I am going to watch to-inorrow to see if 
I can see an Early Worm” laughed the Little 
Girl . “And why is the Early Bird always a 
robin?” 

But the bluebird flew away and left the 
Little Girl to answer her own questions. After 
all, it was not a part of the story at all. 



Little Lady-Bug Lady 


A little lady-bug had flown upon the Little 
Girl’s hand and she was gazing at it, afraid to 
hurt it in brushing it away, when the bluebird 
lit on the little tree next day . That, perhaps, 
is why he chose to tell this story about the 
Little Lady-Bug of the garden . 



XV 

Little L,ady-Bu t 


T HERE was once upon 

the insects of the gardep. me' 
to talk. Each one bok&Jed 
could do. e 

“I can build,’’ said the ant. 

“I can make honey,” said the b< 

“I can burrow,” said the worm. 

“I can sting,” said the spider. 

“I can sting, too,” the bee decla 
I sting only when interfered with imffiy 

“I sting, too,” declared the wasp. “I sting 
because I make others fear me with my sting! 
There is no person who will willingly touch a 
wasp. I have made myself feared and so I am 
safe from harm that man can do mel ?r 

And so they each began to tell how th 
could hurt man, by sting or by bite. And t 
worm, who came near being laughed at be- 
cause he seemed so defenseless, said that, in 
case of need, he had a secret means of self pro- 

■ I 

TO 


90 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


tection : he could either wiggle into the ground 
or make himself so homely that anybody 
would drop him. 

But among the insects there was only one 
who boasted of nothing and that was the little 
round lady-bug with dotted wings. When 
they asked her what she would do, if some- 
body caught her, she said, “I think I should be 
polite !” They lost all patience with her and 
said, when she was caught some day she would 
find out the good of a sting or a bite — yes, she 
would ! 

And so time passed. 

One day the ant who was crossing over a 
man’s hand as he climbed a tree, stung him to 
protect herself. And nobody heard of the ant 
after that. 

One day the bee, who was interfered with 
while at work — he stung a man, and his sting 
availed him nothing. It was so with the spider, 
and the hornet, and the mosquito. They were 
killed with a slap. But the little spotted lady- 
bug lived on. When she flew upon a hand, 
it left her alone. Nobody ever hurt her. If 
she flies upon your book while you are read- 
ing, you slip your finger under her and lift her 
off carefully. Nobody ever hurts a lady-bug 


LITTLE LADY-BUG LADY 


91 


because she is always polite. And maybe, 
manners count in the insect world of the gar- 
den, as they do with you and me. Who wants 
to be a wasp, or a mosquito, I should like to 
know! 



All through the short little song -story of the 
bluebird, the little spotted lady-bug crawled 
politely about on the Lit tlgjjffif irl’ s hand . And 
when the bluebird had finish ed, we brushed the 
lady-bug off into tlfi grass . She had done no 
harm . It was exdctly as the bluebird had said 
in his storu / / 



The White Pebble 


The bluebird came as early as he could the 
next day . The Little Girl heard him singing 
even while she was being bundled into her soft 
white sweater . The air was crisp , for it was 
late September . She was glad that the blue- 
bird was not yet gone away . She was sure she 
would miss his stories when he flew away in the 
fall . She could hardly wait to have the sweater 
buttoned , so anxious was she to see the blue- 
bird of the garden , who was singing his own 
songs of what the flowers , and the sunlight , the 
wind, and the leaves had told him. And this 
time, he told about a white pebble — maybe 
you, too, have seen white pebbles on the garden 
walk? 


XVI 



The White Pebble 


O NCE upon a 
who was 
party. The 
sent out a great many 


there was a princess 
have a birthday 
the queen had 
tions. The prin- 


cess was to have the 
one had ever seen. It 
pink icing, and it was 
candles on each slice. 

Everyone was talking of 
are you going to wear?” 
are you going to carry for a 

“I suppose we must 
present,” they sighed, “but it 
the princess anything. She 
she knows what to do 
everything!” However, 
boxes of candy, flowers, 
books, games, boxes of 
bons, handkerchiefs, 
Everyone tried to spend 
money as possible to 
great. 


v cake any- 
with 


96 


THE BLUEBIRD^ GARDEN 


There was one guest who had no money with 
which to buy a present and that was a little 
brown elf. He did not think about what he 
should wear to the princess’s party. All he 
thought was, “Oh, what can I give the dear 
princess? I want to give her something, so 
much! I want to give her the loveliest thing 
in all the wide, wide world — and I have no 
money! I don’t want to go empty handed.” 

He thought, and he thought. “Perhaps I 
could earn some money,” he said. “I will try.” 

So when Mr. Bee of the garden came 
a-buzzing by, the little brown elf called out, 
“Hoo-oo! Mr. Bee! — Hoo-oo! I’ll go very 
fast to all your flowers for you and I’ll get the 
honey, if you will let me. Then you can take 
a rest!” 

Mr. Bee looked rather surprised. 

“I just want enough money to buy the prin- 
cess a birthday present,” the little brown elf 
started to explain — but Mr. Busy Bee had 
buzzed busily by and paid no attention! Mr. 
Busy Bee was not used to being spoken to 
when he was so busy! He was not used to 
sitting down to rest. He never thought of 
anything but work. Why, it is even to be 
doubted whether he knew that the princess was 


THE WHITE PEBBLE 


97 


to have a party. Certainly he took no time to 
consider it. 

So the little brown elf walked on. Pres- 
ently, he came to Mrs. Lilly-flower’s garden 
patch. It was looking rather dry. “Oh, Mrs. 
.Lilly-flower,” said the little brown elf, “I will 
draw you bucketsful of dew this evening if you 
will just give me a bit of your gold ! I want to 
buy a present for the princess.” 

But Mrs. Lilly-flower shook her head. “I’m 
sorry,” she said, “but I’m sure it is going to 
rain soon.” 

So the little brown elf walked on. It was 
the same everywhere. He ran from one place 
to another. He tried everything that he could 
think of, but no one wanted an errand boy or a 
general helper. 

The time passed quickly. By and by the 
very day of the party arrived. Everyone was 
beautifully dressed; everyone had presents 
wrapped up in tissue paper and tied with gay 
ribbons; but there was one person who had 
nothing, and that was the little brown elf. 

“What can I carry to the princess? What, 
oh ! what can I carry to the princess for a birth- 
day present?” the little brown elf asked himself 
sadly. 


98 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


He had nothing of his own — nothing at all 
of his own to give. He would not let himself 
grow discouraged, even in the face of great 
difficulty. “I will go and seek about in the 
woods and fields,” he decided. “There are al- 
ways lovely treasures to be picked up, if one 
can but find them there.” 

So he set forth. 

He had not gone very far when he saw a 
dainty bird’s nest swinging in a tree. “Oh,” 
thought he, “surely no one will carry such a 
pretty thing as this to the princess! How 
she would like to see it!” Yet the nest be- 
longed to a little gray bird and the little brown 
elf did not take it. It was not his to take. He 
never so much as thought of disturbing the 
four speckled eggs that lay there so cosily. 

He went on his way, and whistled to keep 
himself merry. 

Presently, he came to a strawberry patch. 
In it were large juicy berries. “Oh, how I 
should like to gather some for the princess,” 
thought the little brown elf — but he hurried on 
and whistled to keep up his courage. “I am 
afraid that I have nothing and that I can find 
nothing to give the princess,” he sighed. 
While he sighed, he rubbed his eyes. When 


THE WHITE PEBBLE 


99 


he rubbed his eyes, he stubbed his toe ! Down 
in the dust went the little brown elf — all in a 
little brown heap ! 

But he picked himself up and dusted his 
clothes. Then he looked down to see what had 
made him stumble. There, lying in the path 
was a round, white pebble. It was so white 
and so round that the little brown elf picked 
it up at once. Indeed, it was a lovely smooth 
stone, and it would have gone happily into the 
little elf’s pocket as a treasure of his very own, 
had he not thought at once, “Why, this is 
pretty enough to give to the princess!” 

Now he whistled because he was truly 
happy. He began to polish his pebble till its 
smooth, white surface shone. With the pebble 
in his hand, he set forth to the birthday party. 

When at last he reached the palace he found 
that everyone was beautifully dressed. Every- 
one carried packages wrapped up in tissue 
paper and tied with ribbons. In the packages 
were wonderful birthday presents — candy, 
flowers, dolls, picture books, games, boxes of 
letter paper, hair ribbons, handkerchiefs, and 
gloves. 

But the little brown elf went with the rest. 
He held the white pebble fast in his hand. It 


100 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


was not tied up in tissue paper and there was 
no gay ribbon on it. 

Everyone pushed and tried to be first, but 
the little brown elf waited patiently for his 
turn at the end of the line. The princess had 
been wished “Happy Birthday” many, many 
times before it came the little brown elf’s turn. 
She had opened all the wonderful) parcels, 
wrapped in tissue paper, and had seen all the 
big boxes of candy, the lovely ribbons, the 
beautiful dolls that could open and shut their 
eyes, the lacy be-ribboned folderols. She had 
looked at the fine picture books, and the jolly 
games. She had admired the letter-paper in 
its pretty boxes. She had admired the dainty 
handkerchiefs and the handsome gloves. She 
was very tired. 

When she saw the little brown elf at the end 
of the line, she looked at him with friendly 
eyes. “Have you a present, too?” she asked. 

He nodded. “I wish that it was ever so 
much more than it is,” he explained. “It 
is only a white pebble but I think it is 
beautiful.” 

Then the little brown elf presented his gift. 
The princess smiled. “Oh, Oh!” she ex- 
claimed, “how lovely ! How wonderful !” She 


THE WHITE PEBBLE 


101 


danced about and clapped her hands. Every- 
one came running to see what the princess’s 
last birthday gift might be — it seemed to 
please her more than anything else she had 
received ! 

“A lucky stone! A lucky stone!” all cried. 
“Now, the princess will always be happy 
forever and ever!” 

Whether or not the princess believed in 
lucky stones I do not know, but she loved the 
little brown elf’s present more than all the 
boxes of candy, the flowers, the dolls, the pic- 
ture books, the games, the boxes of letter- 
paper, the hair ribbons, the handkerchiefs, and 
the gloves that she had received. 

And there was someone else that day who 
was happy; it was the little brown elf, who 
had given the best that he had to the princess, 
and who, because he had made his gift in the 
right spirit, had made the very best gift of all. 

“My birthday comes in October ” the Little 
Girl laughed . “Will you be here to tell me a 
story then , bluebird?” 

But the bluebird could not tell for he did not 
know . 




















Ho w There Came to be a 

Firefly 


The rain kept the Little Girl in the house 
next day , and the next , and the next . She did 
not see the bluebird except for an instant one 
morning when he lit on the rosebush near the 
window . When , at last a clear sunny day had 
come and the grass under the little tree was 
dried by the wind and sun , the Little Girl 
brought her wooly white dog with her and 
waited beneath the tree for the bluebird to 
come and tell his story. The wooly white dog 
wa s just a toy and his eyes flashed when one 
pressed a little bulb in his head. If it had been 
dark, you might have taken the flashes for a 
firefly — who knows ? There are no fireflies in 
late September. But the bluebird's story was 
all about fireflies. How did he know what the 
Little Girl had been thinking! 





XVII 

How There Came to be a 

Firefly 


T HERE was once upon a time when 
the firefly carried no light. That was 
so long ago that it is almost forgotten. 
Listen and I will tell you the story of how the 
firefly got its light. It happened because the 
firefly loved the stars. 

Every night, after the little gray owl came 
to perch on a limb of the old apple-tree in the 
garden — after the twilight had deepened into 
dusk, the firefly who had no light flitted hither 
and thither in the darkness watching the stars. 

Some flashed with red and some flashed with 
green but the firefly loved best those that 
flashed with yellow. And one night when he 
was watching the stars a little light fell on him 
from the largest and most beautiful star in the 
sky. Ever since that time, long, long ago, the 
firefly has kept his little star-light a-twinkling 
in the garden. If you catch a firefly and look 


106 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


for his light, you will see only a dark little 
insect because the light that the star gave him 
is very precious and he holds his black coat 
over it to hide it. Everyone who comes into 
the garden loves the fireflies. They are the 
stars of the grass and the trees, as the stars of 
the sky are fireflies of other gardens, the 
gardens of the clouds and the moon. 

It was a short story — but, no doubt, the 
bluebird had other things to do that morning . 
It left the Little Girl wondering where the 
fireflies went after summer was passed . Can 
you tell? 

She could not ask the bluebird . He had 
flown away. 


The Flower that Lives 
Above the Clouds 


The story that the bluebird sang next time 
was not about garden flowers . It was about 
the little white edelweiss that grows high up 
on the mountains. It must have been a story 
that the wind told the bluebird — else how could 
he ever have known ? 





The Flo 
Above 


and 


dland 

and 


shy 


L ong ago, long 

first woke to life 
each chose where 
chose, too, the color of ’ 
“I will cover the 
soil gay with green 
“I will live 
laughed the daisy. 

“I, too,” 

flower, the poppy, 

“Give me the 
water-lily called. 

“And let us 
marshes,” begged 
J acks-in-the-pulpit. 

“We love the 
spots,” lisped the 
wood-violets. 


ferny wooc 
forget-me-not 


110 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


“And we wish to be petted in gardens/' de- 
clared the rose, the pansies, the sweet William, 
the hollyhocks. 

“I love the warm dry sun — I will go to the 
sandy desert/' said the cactus. So all places 
except the bare ridges of high mountains were 
chosen. To these, no flower wished to go. 

“There is not enough food there!” the daisy 
explained. 

“There is not enough warmth! There is not 
enough food!” all decided. “It is so bare and 
chilly! Let the gray moss go and cover the 
rocks,” they said. 

But the moss was loth to go. 

“When one cannot live without moisture, 
warmth, nourishment — when one must have 
petting or live in a garden, surely the bleak 
places of the mountains must do without 
flowers! How foolish it would be to try to 
make the ragged bare mountain-tops lovely! 
Let the gray moss go — he has not yet chosen!” 

So the gray moss went up the high moun- 
tains because he was told to go. He climbed 
over the bare rocks beyond the places where 
forests ceased to grow. All was desolate and 
silent up there. 

Up higher and higher crept the gray moss. 


THE FLOWER THAT LIVES ABOVE THE CLOUDS 111 

It went even above the clouds where the 
ragged rocks were covered with ice and snow. 

There it stopped short in amazement, for it 
found a quiet star-shaped flower clinging to 
the crags and blossoming! It was white like 
the snow around it and its heart was of soft 
yellow. So cold was it up there that the little 
flower had cased its leaves in soft wool to keep 
warm and living in the bleakness. 

“Oh!” cried the gray moss, stopping short. 
“How came you here where there was no 
warmth, no moisture, no nourishment? It is 
high above the forests, high above the clouds! 
I came because I was sent. Who are you?” 

Then the little starry flower nodded in the 
chill wind. “I am the edelweiss,” it said. “I 
came here quietly because there was need of 
me, that some blossom might brighten these 
solitudes.” 

“And didn’t they tell you to come?” 

“No,” said the little flower. “It was be- 
cause the mountains needed me. There are no 
flowers up here but me.” 

The edelweiss is closer to the stars than the 
daisy, the buttercup, the iris, or the rose. 
Those who have courage, like it, have found it 
high above the clouds, where it grows ever 


112 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


gladly. They call it Noble White — that is its 
name, edelweiss! Love, like the edelweiss, 
knows not self sacrifice. 

The story about the Flower That Lives in 
the Clouds left the Little Girl thinking . She 
was sure there was a meaning in it. The blue- 
bird did not tell her what it was. Perhaps he 
felt that she could think it out for herself. 



The Mountain that Wanted 

to be a Man 


And the next story that the bluebird told 
was a story about the mountains , too. Y es, it, 
too, was a legend that the wind had told. It 
was about the mountain that wanted to be a 


man. 


The Mountain uiatr ma 
to be a Marti ' 



XIX 


O 


>M /* 

NCE upon a time there lived i xnoun- 
tain that wanted to be like a 



The mountain was very tall. Its s 
mit reached even above the clouds, sometimes. 
Its sides were covered with strong rocks and 
beautiful forests. Thick underbrush gre^v in 
the shade of staunch hemlock trees and 
mingled with lacy ferfeand red wintergreen 
berries, hidden in the dimness of the fepun- 
tain’s woody places. 

Close to the side of the ri\Qim 
row pass between it and tlie c 
a tiny lake that was like a jew 
the blue sky above. The rrioun 
itself reflected in the quiet water of this fifty 
lake, and its leafy forest trees grew low 
branches that swept the soft ripplej^pf the lake. 

Sometimes, when the wind blew and the 
clouds clung low, the mountain could not see 



116 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


its reflection in the lake. These were the times 
when the storm wind drew through the notch, 
like a shepherd driving his flock before him — 
the clouds that brought the rain. At these 
times, the storm and the mountain talked 
together, and they talked of many things. 

One day when the storm came, driving his 
flock before him, the mountain questioned him, 
“Have you ever known of a mountain that was 
like a man? I would like to be a man- 
mountain. Can it be done?” 

The storm sighed through the tree-tops. 
“No,” he answered. “I have never yet heard 
of a mountain that was a man, and I go about 
the world, from east to west and from north to 
south. I see all things. I have seen the sea 
shape great rocks into strange shapes, and I, 
myself have chiseled hillsides and cliffs. I 
have never seen a mountain that was like a 
man, but I have seen other strange sights.” 

“I would that I had power like yours,” 
brooded the mountain. “Then would I carve 
out the jagged crags on my wooded sides and 
make me into the semblance of a man.” 

Then the storm laughed aloud. “I scarce 
thought of this,” he declared. “Indeed, I have 
power. It is I who drive the clouds before 


THE MOUNTAIN THAT WANTED TO BE A MAN 117 

me through the notch. It is I who move the 
wind. I sway great trees and send their giant 
limbs crashing down upon the ferns and moss 
like tiny twigs. I hurl heavy boulders as if 
they were pebbles, and I cause streams to flow 
like torrents. My sword is the lightning and 
my voice is the law of forest thunder. Even 
thou, Mountain, thou must bend to my power. 
I will shape thee into the semblance of a man!” 

So the storm said to the mountain and his 
strong great voice reverberated in the crash of 
deep thunder as he moved the wind and flashed 
the lightning. 

All night long the storm struggled at his 
work. Never before had there been such fierce 
flashes of his sword. Never before had he up- 
rooted so tall hemlocks! The giant trees 
quaked and crashed ( on the mountain side. 
Under the stress of the storm the mountain 
itself quivered, even to its broad base in the 
valley. 

Then, when the storm had done all that it 
could, it passed a soft breeze over the moun- 
tain and caused it to fall into deep and tran- 
quil sleep in the midst of white clouds. 

When the morning sun rose in the wide sky, 
it swept away the mists. The mountain woke 


118 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


in the clear sunlight. Its tiny lake lay calm 
below and as the mountain gazed down upon 
it, it saw the reflection of a great stone face 
upon its summit, the face of a strong man- 
giant that the storm had carved from the 
mountain’s bowlders. 

Many people go to see the mountain now. 
They stand by the shore of the little blue lake 
and gaze upward at the face on the mountain 
side. And the man-mountain gazes down 
upon them. When they call across the lake, 
the echo that wakes to their halloo ! seems the 
very voice of the man-mountain answering. 

“I think ” said the Little Girl , “Ld like to 
see the man-mountain . Maybe , when my 
birthday has come and gone — when I am quite 
grown-up and can go where I want to go out- 
side the garden , I, too , will see the man-moun- 
tain and then I will tell him that the bluebird 
told me his story and that the wind told him. 


The Sundial and the 
Dandelion 


It was a late dandelion that the Little Girl 
had found in a close sheltered nook , that she 
held up for the bluebird to see . He twitched 
his tail gaily , but he knew — none better — that 
autumn is not spring! And when he had 
cleared his throat of the surplus gaiety , he 
sang the song that is the story of the dandelion . 


XX 

The Sundial and the 

Dandelion 

I N the centre of a garden, there was a 
bronze sundial. It thought itself very 
wise and it looked down on the flowers in 
the garden-beds with contempt. “They bloom 
one day and are gone the next,” it said to itself. 
“I count the time of a century.” 

Yes: the sundial was wise. It could mark 
off the hours of the day quite easily. It could 
read the language of the sun and that is some- 
thing that nothing else in the garden could do. 
Also, it was very useful; for every day when 
it was pleasant, a princess came to look at it, 
to find out what time it might chance to be. 
She, too, marveled that the sundial could read 
the language of the sun and write it with a 
shadow. 

Now, down in the thick grass, quite hidden 
from the gardener’s keen eye, there grew a 
tiny dandelion plant. It had come up from a 


122 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


little winged seed and already it had a green 
dandelion bud upon it. The dandelion was 
quite beneath the notice of the grand sundial, 
but the little weed looked up to it and mar- 
veled. The dandelion loved the sun too, and 
when its green bud opened, the flower within 
was a yellow gold ball like it. “Would that I 
might tell time, too,” the dandelion wished. 
“I, too, would count the years, if I could.” 
And so it grew. 

One day, the sun did not shine in the gar- 
den, for the clouds were over the sky. That 
day, when the princess came, the face of the 
sundial was a blank. 

Then the princess looked down at the grass 
and her gaze rested upon the cluster of seeds 
that were grown from the dandelion’s yellow- 
gold flower. “Tell me what o’clock it is, little 
flower,” she laughed. “The sundial is not so 
wise to-day as it might be.” And she blew a 
breath that parted the white globe of the 
winged dandelion seeds that had been the 
flower once. They flew north, and south, and 
east, and west. There were only three left. 
“Then it is three o’clock, little flower, is it 
not? Truly you tell time well — even better 
than the sundial, on a cloudy day.” 


THE SUNDIAL AND THE DANDELION 123 

The sundial looked down to where the 
dandelion plant had been and it wondered if 
this were true indeed. It waited to find out. 

Next year, and next year, and next year, 
there were always new yellow-gold dandelions 
in the grass, and, no doubt because the prin- 
cess had told them about the dandelion’s 
simple wisdom, the children came to pick white 
dandelion seeds and blow their white globes to 
find out what o’clock it might be. They could 
not read the sundial and the dandelion seemed 
meant for them. 

You, too, may tell time by the dandelion if 
you blow its seeds north, south, east, and west. 
The seeds that remain will be the hour of the 
day, but those that have been blown are the 
centuries still to come. The sundial cannot 
tell time this way. Ever, and ever, and ever 
there will be new centuries, even as there are 
new dandelions springing from last year’s 
winged seeds, but the bronze sundial lasts with 
its wisdom only for the span of one man’s 
life. 

Despise not the little things. The dandelion 
in its simplicity is greater than the wise sundial 
of the garden. 



124 the bluebird’s garden 


When the dandelion's story was -finished , 
the bluebird flew away from the little tree and 
the Little Girl searched vainly for dandelion 
puffs to tell her the time x qf day. They had 
long since gone to seed-— winged seed that next 
year should grow inio new golden dandelions 
everywhere. 


The Legend of the 
Morning Dew 


The bluebird came on time ! He was there 
on his branch when the Little Girl ran up the 
path of the garden from the red and white 
flower-bed where she had been gathering buds . 

The bluebird looked knowingly at the 
flowers she let drop — and maybe he told the 
story with a purpose . It was called the Story 
of the Morning Hew . 



P erhaps you 

true nevertheless : 
that grows, there is 
in the garden. It is the f 
bud. It is the fairy who 
night. It is the fairy, too, 
the flower’s seed and finally 
wind to carry where it thinks 
you know this, I will tell you 
to be dew. It is not a long 
Once upon a time, long, 
some children who lived near 
did not know what I have 
flowers. They thought 
them. They even picked 
them to wilt, for they 
a cruel thing to do that 
Yes, the children 
on the garden paths 


it, but it is 
little flower 


128 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


they picked merely to see who could get the 
largest bunch and in their hurry they tore the 
flowers up by the roots. 

At night the fairies came to take care of 
their blossoms and they found them gone. 
When you see the dew in the garden, it is the 
tears of the fairies who have cried over every 
flower that has been picked thoughtlessly and 
left to wilt. Always, when this happens, the 
fairies have to find new flowers to tend. So 
think twice before you break one off its stem, 
and never, never be so thoughtless and unkind 
as to drag up a whole plant by the roots. 
When you do this, it is plainly unkind. No 
more flowers will grow from that plant and 
what will the fairies do, do you think, if there 
are no more flowers? 

When the story was finished, the Little Girl 
thoughtfully gathered the buds she had picked. 
She had never before realized that the flowers 
were the homes of fairies. After the bluebird's 
story she would think twice before picking a 
flower simply because she wanted it for the 
moment . 



Ho w There Came to be a 

Katydid 


It was always quiet in the garden . There 
was only the sound of the breeze that fanned 
the leaves of the bluebird's little tree. But as 
the summer had grown into autumn , there 
were hundreds of chanting insect voices that 
sung in the secret places beneath the garden- 
grass and under the leaves of the flowers. The 
bluebird evidently heard them , just as the 
Little Girl had heard them. When he came 
to swing upon his tree next day , he told a story 
all about the garden voices. It is an old, old 
story — as old as the clouds, and the wind, and 
the sunlight. It is How There Came To Be 
a Katydid. 




XXII 

How There Came 

Katydid 


L ONG, long, long ago — sc 
this story has had time 
garden legend — two 
pers went out, one fine day, 
cricket. They played tag 
land. At last they decided 
of hide-and-seek. 

The goal was a blade of 
counted out to see who should 
fell to the little cricket, 
hide her eyes behind the 
up to one hundred by tens 
hoppers went off to hide. 

So the cricket hid her face so 
not see and began: 4 ‘Ten, twenty, thirty, 
fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety , — one hun- 
dred! Coming !” 

Though there were plenty of good places in 
which to hide in the garden, one green grass- 


132 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


hopper had been slow to suit himself. He had 
not yet hidden when the little cricket turned 
about and caught him. 

And he began, “You didn’t count up to a 
hundred! I didn’t have time to hide! You 
should have hollered, ‘Coming!’ It’s no fair! 
I’m not going to play any more — you didn’t 
count up to a hundred!” 

At this, the other grasshopper came out of 
hiding. “She did count up to a hundred,” he 
said. “Katy didr 

“She didn’t!” 

“She did!” 

“She didn’t!” 

“Katy did, did, did!” 

“Katy didn’t, didn’t, didn’t!” 

“Did, did, did!” 

“Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t!” 

“Katy did!” 

“Katy didn’t!” 

“She did!” 

“She didn’t!” 

“Katy did!” 

“Katy didn’t!” 

To this very, very day, you can hear the dis- 
pute still going on in the garden and the game 
of tag has never yet been finished. Ever since 


HOW THERE CAME TO BE A KATYDID 


133 


that time the grasshoppers who started the 
discussion have been called katydids and the 
whole garden is full of the controversy. You 
can hear hundreds of little voices keeping it 
up, though nothing is ever decided. So it goes 
on eternally, Katy did — Katy didn’t, did, did, 
did, didn’t, didn’t, she did, she didn’t — for no- 
body has ever yet settled a dispute by contra- 
diction. By this time, too, everyone has 
forgotten what the quarrel was about. 

“The Katydids have long since forgotten the 
quarrel ” the Little Girl said . “But I dare 
say they have said what they have to say so 
many , many summers that it has grown into a 
little chant . And , now they can say nothing 
else — because they have forgotten how ! 33 

“Just so / 3 the bluebird nodded . Then , he 
flew away across the garden toward the blue- 
bird field . 





At the End of the Rainbow 


It may have been the nodding golden-glow 
that suggested the bluebird's next story — it 
may have been the little shower that came up< 
suddenly to make a rainbow with the clear sun- 
light . Nobody knows . But when the Little 
Girl greeted the bluebird next day , he told her 
the story of the rainbow and what a fairy once 
did with the pot of gold that she found at its 
end upon a sloping hillside . 


XXIII 

At the End of the Rainbow 

Y OU have heard, I dare say, that there 
is a pot of gold at the end of every 
rainbow. That was true long, long 
ago for the sun himself buried it there. You 
shall hear the story. Now, the pot of gold is 
at everyone’s own front door. 

It happened when the first rainbow was 
painted in the sky by the rain and the sun that 
the sun suggested the fun of putting a pot of 
golden treasure for the one who could find it 
there. Far and wide the news spread to the 
elves and to the fairies, “At the end of the 
rainbow, there is a pot of gold!” 

When the rainbows came in the sky, every- 
one would set out to find the pot of gold. 
They would start and travel toward the place 
where they saw the rainbow touch the earth, 
over field of grass, over field of stubble, over 
hill, over dale, over mountain crag and over 
valley beyond, across brook and across river; 
but by the time they had reached the spot 


138 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


where the rainbow touched the earth it had 
vanished and no one could find the pot of gold. 

The fairies of the flowers tried it; the 
fairies of the trees tried it. The elves who live 
under stones and in hollow trees, they tried it, 
too. The rainbow seemed always far away. 
Its end was further off than anyone would 
have supposed. They wanted the magic 
gold for themselves, the hoard of the sun’s 
treasure. 

At last, there came a rainbow in the sky 
after a shower. It was one of the most won- 
derful rainbows that there ever was; for its 
colors were clear and beautiful. And a fairy 
slipped out from under a brown leaf where it 
had been hiding and saw the wide span of the 
rainbow arch against the sky. “I will go and 
find the treasure,” she thought, and she started 
off in the direction where the rainbow touched 
the earth on a distant hillside. The fairy flew 
so swiftly that the rainbow was still a clear 
arch when she came to the hill where it touched 
and there, at the end, he found the treasure of 
magic gold in a golden kettle I Ah, that was 
treasure indeed ! 

Now, the treasure was large and the fairy 
might not fly back with it. She was forced to 


AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW 139 

plod homeward as best she could, tugging the 
pot of gold. 

As she went down the hillside, the grass 
cried out, “Oh, give me a little of the treasure 
— give me some of the sun’s magic gold!” 
And the fairy tipped the pot of gold and 
spilled it upon the grass. 

As she was going over the stubble-field, the 
earth called, “Give me, give me of the sun’s 
magic gold!” And the fairy tipped the pot of 
gold and it fell upon the earth. 

As she was going over mountain, and valley, 
over river, and stream, and brook, through 
woodland and back into her garden, the moun- 
tain, and the valley, the stream, and the river, 
and the brook, the woodland and the garden 
each begged for a bit of the treasure and each 
time, she tipped the pot of gold and left a part 
of it behind her. 

When at last, she reached home, the pot of 
gold was much lighter than when she had 
started and there was a train of elves and 
fairies following on after her to pick up what 
bits might fall upon the way as the pot tipped. 
Indeed, the pot was so light that the gold was 
all gone from it when the fairy reached her 
own home again! The others ran off, each to 


140 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


her own place, each with as much of the treas- 
ure as had been picked up as it fell. And now, 
if you go to see a hillside, you will find it all 
covered with golden flowers where the fairy 
tipped her pot of gold. The fields, and the 
woods, the rivers, and the brooks; the moun- 
tains, and the valleys, the gardens wherever 
there are yellow blooms, there is where the 
fairy, long ago tipped her pot of magic sun- 
gold of rainbow treasure! And the reason 
that many little flowers have such yellow 
hearts is that the elves and the fairies who lived 
in them carried their gleanings of the treasure 
and hid them, each in his own home. 

And so, to-day, if you will but look in your 
own garden, you will know that a fairy once 
passed that way. The lawn is yellow with 
dandelions in spring and you might try to 
count the flowers that hold the magic gold! 

“And that is the reason why the garden and 
the grass , all the year round are full of yellow 
flowers'!” the Little Girl questioned . “The 
magic gold turned to flowers!” 

The bluebird sung a ripple of song in answer 
— it was but a garden legend that he had told . 
Maybe he had it from the sunlight that flooded 
all the garden . 


Why the Potato Lives in 
the Ground 


“Tell me a funny story. Bluebird ” the Lit- 
tle Girl begged, when she saw the bluebird on 
his tree next day . And perhaps there was a 
twinkle in the bluebird's little eye when he told 
the story of Why the Potato Lives Down in 
the Ground . 


Why 



T here was on$ 

tato grew out 
as the squash and 
now. That was so long 
members it, but I will tell ; 
grow quite hidden in the 
As everybody knows. 

One morning he woke 
nothing suited him, fo| 
looked at the lettuce and I 
I think your curly 3 ®! 
you make ’em straight! 

And the lettuce who 
leaves the prettiest 
a sudden and great dislike to the potato, even 
though she answered never a word. 

When she answered n^tqr a word, the potato 
gave a sniff and turned to the egg-plant. 
“Mercy,” said the potafo, “I shouldn’t think 
you’d like to have so brown a face! I|/Kjrou 



144 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


knew how it looked you’d use a parasol.” And 
the egg-plant who thought a thick coat of tan 
most becoming, took a sudden and strong dis- 
like to the potato, even though she answered 
never a word. 

When she answered never a word the potato 
gave a sniff and turned to the celery. “Oh, 
Celery,” said the potato, “what makes you 
grow straight and lumped all in a bunch?” 
And the celery, who knew that it was best for 
her to grow lumped in a bunch — because she 
couldn’t grow otherwise — took a sudden and 
strong dislike to the potato, though she an- 
swered never a word. 

When it answered never a word, the potato 
gave a sniff and turned to the red pepper. 
“Oh, Red Pepper,” said the potato, “why are 
you so fiery red? Why don’t you stay 
green — ” But it got no further! As every- 
body knows, the red pepper is peppery! 
“Keep your eyes in the ground, Potato!” it 
retorted. “If you don’t bury your eyes in the 
ground where they can’t see, something will 
happen!” 

“Yes! Yes,” chimed in the lettuce, the egg- 
plant, and the celery, “The potato has too 
many eyes!” 


WHY THE POTATO LIVES IN THE GROUND 145 

But the potato gave a sniff and turned to 
the onion. “Oh, Onion,” said the potato, 
“what makes you so white? Why is your head 
so large and your body so small? — WHY — ” 

But right here, the onion who is and always 
has been a weepy vegetable, began to cry. He 
w r as very sensitive ! 

The garden vegetables decided that some- 
thing must be done at once to stop the potato. 
So they called to the hobgoblins to come and 
help them. 

The hobgoblins made short work of burying 
the potato in the earth where his eyes could see 
nothing. Only his leaves were permitted to 
stand in the sunlight. And the hobgoblins in- 
vented potato-bugs — hoards of them striped 
yellow and black. They set these to guard the 
potato and to eat him up if he so much as 
peeped above ground. 

Since that time the potato sees nothing. 
Everything is peaceful and happy in the gar- 
den. Perhaps the potato might like to live 
above ground but he grows in the earth. 
Really, I think he deserved his fate. This is 
the story of why the potato grows in the 
ground. You may believe it or not, just as 
you choose — but one thing is certain: if you 


146 


THE BLUEBIRD S GARDEN 


make disagreeable personal remarks, like the 
potato when he woke up cross in the morning, 
everyone will take a sudden and strong dislike 
to you. 

“I never before knew why there were 
potato-bugs ” the Little Girl laughed. And 
when the bluebird flew away to his field , she 
was still smiling. 



The Brier Rose— The Story 
of the Beginning 


It was too late for roses — almost time for 
frosts , but the Little Girl , when she came from 
the bluebird field one day , brought with her a 
cluster of rose-haws with beautiful red-brown 
leaves about them . Maybe the bluebird him- 
self saw her pick the rose-haws . She had gone 
to fill her brown pitcher at the spring . The 
whole field was so alive with bluebirds there 
that one could not tell which one the bluebird 
of the garden was . But when he came next 
time , he told the sweetest story of all — it was 
How There Came to be a Wild-Brier Rose, 
long, long ago when the earth was still very 
young . 



XXV 

The Brier Rose— 
of the Begin 


D O you know why the 
beautiful? Listen, 
the story. It 

the first green plants grew 
and the oak, and the maple, 
were baby trees. That was 
everything was beginning to 
grasses, and the weeds, and the 
small like little children. 

At that time, long, 
plant pushed its way 
earth out into the sunlight on a 
and it sprang up with its 
side with rough weeds. 

“Well, well,” cried 
Little Growing Thing 
to be when you grow up ? 
a weed like us?” 

And the little plant 


150 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


it said, “I am not going to be a weed. I am 
going to be something wonderful like the elm, 
and the oak. I am very small yet, but I want 
to grow so that I may reach the sky and hold 
the sun in my arms at dawn.” 

“Oh!” cried the weeds. “You! You can’t 
be anything larger than a weed, such as we are ! 
You have sprung up amongst us. If you are 
anything else, go away!” They pushed the 
little green plant rudely. They took its mois- 
ture and its sunlight, but the little green plant 
kept on growing, in spite of all obstacles, as 
well as it knew how, every day growing taller 
and more lovely. 

Little thorns came — they were its troubles, 
you know — little thorns came upon its stems 
and pricked the tender new leaves and the lit- 
tle green bush was very unhappy sometimes — 
poor little green bush! It had only the sun 
and the sky which it loved. 

But the little bush was never disheartened. 
It grew and grew each day as well as it knew 
how and put forth new leaves, trying ever to 
reach higher toward the sky. 

When the sun rose in the misty pink clouds 
at the dawn, the little bush looked at it and 
wished that it might be like it, and wondered 


THE BRIER ROSE 


151 


if it would ever be able to reach up so high. 
But it could not. It was only a little bush 
that was trying to grow as best it could. 

Day by day passed by and the little bush 
knew that it could never be tall like the elm or 
the oak, but it still tried to do its duty every 
day and grow toward the sky as far as it could. 

And one day, what do you think happened, 
Little One? This is what happened: the little 
green bush woke up with the dewy sunrise and 
held its delicate leaves out to the warmth — and 
then, and then it found a surprise! There 
were clusters of new green leaves all over its 
branches in tiny, tender bundles that clustered 
about something softly tipped with pink, and 
these were all little buds of flowers like noth- 
ing the little bush had ever known before. 

And the little bush forgot its thorns, it for- 
got the sandy, stony ground; it forgot the 
rough weeds and in its surprise it unfolded, 
one by one, the pink-tipped buds. 

Each tiny bud unfolded and opened with 
pink, heart-shaped petals, each the color of the 
misty, rose-tinted clouds of sunrise, each with 
a golden sun in its heart. And so, Little One, 
we grow always to be like what we love best. 
If we are rude and selfish as the weeds are, we 


152 


THE BLUEBIRD'S GARDEN 


do not try to grow toward the sky, and we 
never reflect in our hearts its warmth and 
beauty. When you see the brier rose blooming 
on the stony hillside of earth’s great garden 
place, you must remember the story of how it 
tried to grow as best it could toward the sky. 

The bluebird flitted away , after the story . 
The white and yellow butterflies floated over 
the flowers in the garden , silently. The sun 
shone in the clear blue shy and the white clouds 
at the horizon were very still. The Little Girl 
herself was quiet , thinking under the bluebird 
tree and looking up into the sky. 


The Hole in the Hedge 


It was but a short , little story that the blue- 
bird told when he came after a long rainy day 
next time . The days were growing cooler, and 
the time was near when the bluebird would find 
another bluebird field, perhaps. He had told 
the Little Girl many stories, all during the 
time that he had known her, when he came 
each day to his garden to sing on the little 
tree. Maybe, when he should go away, it 
would be to find new stories, and to bring them 
back when he came back to the garden in the 
spring. Then, he should find the Little Girl 
there playing, and there would be more and 
more stories to tell her. Ah, when the blue- 
bird should come again, there would be much 
to think about! 



The Hole in the Hedge 

T HERE was once upon a time a gar- 
den hedge that was planted around 
a garden. It was a thick fine hedge 
as was ever planted and it grew green and 
splendid, to wall in the garden. Yet, one day, 
when the gardener came to clip it, he found 
a small hole, far down close to the ground. 

“This will never do,” the gardener thought. 
“This w T ill spoil the hedge.” But, try as he 
might, the hole in the hedge did not grow 
smaller. 

“It is just a small hole,” thought the little 
hedge, — “just a small hole,” and it reasoned 
with itself that the birds needed the place to 
go through, though it knew quite well that 
they did not. It really did not want to take 
the extra pains to fill up that little hole. It 
preferred to grow tall and wide. And so the 
gardener, do wliat he might, found the little 
hole still in the garden hedge. 


156 


THE BLUEBIRD S GARDEN 


It grew larger — for the little animals that 
passed that way found it easy to slip through 
into the garden and out again. Even the chil- 
dren, after a while, found that it was an easy 
way into the garden, if one was in a hurry. 
And so the hole in the hedge grew, and grew, 
and grew ! 

“It makes the whole hedge ugly,” the gar- 
dener declared. “I will take the hedge down 
and put up something more useful.” And so 
he did. When one plants a hedge or builds a 
fence, one wants something that may be de- 
pended upon. For the duty of the garden 
hedge is to grow close and well — who wants a 
hedge that has a hole in it, I wonder? 

The bluebird flew away when he had told his 
story and the Little Girl watched him go. She 
would have liked a longer story . Indeed , she 
would have liked to keep the bluebird still 
singing in the garden , if she could. He had 
learned so many stories about the garden 
things! 


The Golden Purse and the 
Seeing Eyes 


The Little Girl was afraid that the bluebird 
had gone away — he was so late in coming next 
day . But , at last he did come with his last 
story for the summer. It was time for the 
bluebirds of the bluebird field to flock away , 
and the bluebird of the Garden was one of 
them. He brought as his last story The 
Golden Purse and the Seeing Eyes. I think 
he had already given the Little Girl the best 
gift of the fairies for she had the Seeing Eyes , 
I am sure. 


XXVII 

The Golden P 

Seeing 

H 

T HERE was once upon 

wood-cutter who had two 18 
he died he left them only 
on the edge of the forest. thl 
enough to live upon, but, ilevert 
night the younger son took hig 
bowl, in which he had purpose 
supper, and he placed it onl 
for the elves. 

The other, however, scraj 
last drop. “This is what thr 
he. “Some day I shall be riel 
Now the younger son wer 
forest, one morning, to cut wo 
an apple and a bit of bread in l 
When he had done his work, he sat down to 
eat them. 

While he was eating his bread he remem- 
bered that there was a fairy ring not far away. 



160 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


“Ah,” laughed he to himself, “I have itl I 
will not eat my apple, but I will take it to the 
fairy ring and drop it there. It will make a 
fine feast for the Little People when they come 
to dance to-night.” Then, because he had 
reached the fairy ring, he dropped the apple 
as he had planned. 

Scarcely had he done this when a little wee 
man popped out of the fern. ITis coat was 
made of a cardinal flower and his eyes twinkled 
through ragged white locks, as the stars peep 
between silver clouds on a windy night. 
“Friend,” he said, “the Little People thank 
you for your many gifts. One does not give a 
recompense for love, but the fairies themselves 
love you and they have sent you the best gift 
that they have. It is called the Seeing Eyes. 
It is an invisible gift, but it is worth more than 
wealth.” 

So the younger son thanked the little wee 
man and he hurried home through the forest 
to tell his brother all that had happened to him. 
All the way upon the path homeward he saw 
new wonders in the trees and flowers. It 
seemed, too, that he understood the song of the 
birds and the chant of the little brooks that he 
passed. 



Every evening he placed his blue porridge bowl on the doorstep] 

for the elves” 
















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THE GOLDEN PURSE 


161 


When he reached home he told his brother 
all that had happened. “What nonsense,” de- 
clared the elder son. “Your eyes look to me 
just as they ever did! Why did you not make 
the opportunity to ask for a gift of value — one 
that could be seen? I would have taken noth- 
ing less than a purse of gold! Why did you 
not make the chance to ask for it?” 

That night, when his brother set his bowl 
upon the doorstep, the elder brother put his 
out, also, for he decided to win the favor of the 
Little People, so that he, too, might have a 
gift. 

Six nights, he placed his blue porridge bowl 
on the doorstone and on the morning of 
the seventh day, he went out into the woods 
toward the fairy ring, with an apple in his 
pocket. 

“If the little wee man speaks to me,” he 
determined, “I will take nothing that cannot 
be seen. I will ask him outright for the Purse 
of Gold.” And then, because he had reached 
the fairy ring, he dropped the apple as he had 
planned. 

Scarcely had he dropped it than it happened 
to him as it had to his brother. The little wee 
man popped out of the fern. His coat was 


162 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


made of a cardinal flower and his bright eyes 
twinkled through his ragged white locks, as 
the stars peep between the silver clouds on a 
windy night. “Why did you drop the apple 
in our fairy ring?” he asked. 

“It is my seventh gift to the Little People,” 
replied the elder son. “In return for all that 
I have done, I ask for the Purse of Gold.” 

“So!” replied the little wee man, thought- 
fully. “Well, I will give it you. It is really 
of little worth in the eyes of the fairies. Con- 
tent and happiness do not go with it unless 
you know its secret. There are many things 
that gold cannot buy.” 

So he gave the elder brother the purse and, 
scarcely giving thanks, the elder brother 
grasped it and turned toward the city that lies 
beyond the wood. He could not wait to see 
what he could buy, and if I should tell you the 
half of his possessions after he had reached 
the city, you might envy him. 

Nevertheless, it did not take him long to 
find out that there are many things money 
cannot buy. He had no love, for that may not 
be bought. He had no content, for he was al- 
ways thinking of his possessions and seeking 
new ones. He had no happiness, because he 


THE GOLDEN PURSE 


163 


had no content — and he had nothing but the 
things that money can buy. He was very un- 
happy. He thought of nobody but himself 
from morning till evening and he did no good 
with what he possessed. 

As for the younger son, he lived on in the 
little hut on the edge of the forest. Though 
he had no money to give away, all poor people 
loved him. Wherever he went he carried the 
magic of the Seeing Eyes. All the fields, the 
woods, the streams, and the brooks were more 
truly his than his brother’s, for he loved the 
grasses, and the flowers, and the trees, and the 
birds and understood them all. Surely, you 
need not ask if he was happy, for it is not 
everyone to whom is given the wealth of the 
Seeing Eyes. 

And so the bluebird flew away . The Little 
Girl did not see him go. But he is singing 
somewhere and maybe — who knows — the Lit- 
tle Girl’s bluebird may be in your very own 
garden. Perhaps , if you are playing there , 
you may hear him sing. The bluebird’s gar- 
den is always a happy place ■, full of the sun- 
light and the flowers , and the soft breezes. It 
is a quiet garden full of thoughts. 


164 


THE BLUEBIRD’S GARDEN 


Maybe > from the bluebird field nearby , the 
bluebird mil come bach to the Little Girl and 
his garden to tell her new stories when the 
wind , and the sunlight , and the flowers where 
he has flown have given them to him . 





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